At the Wedding

by Matt Dunn

  ‘How?’

  Patrick motioned for Jed to drink up. ‘Seems to me you’ve already started,’ he said.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’ Jed shook his head slowly. ‘The problem is, I want it to mean something.’

  ‘It does. To Livia. Otherwise she wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. And after ten years, the fact that it means something to her should mean something to you. And in fact, the fact that it means so much to her that she’s gone to all this trouble, risked being publicly humiliated in front of all her friends, just to get you to stand next to her for five minutes and grunt “I do” . . .’ Patrick grinned. ‘She’s a smart cookie. She’s not going to – how did you put it earlier? – “bet half of everything” on you if she thinks you’re a loser.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Patrick put his arm around Jed’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. ‘Jed, you’ve got a lot of stuff swirling around in that head of yours right now, but really this all comes down to one thing. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with Livia?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘In that case . . .’ Patrick tossed a ten-euro note onto the bar, then hauled himself up off his stool. ‘Let’s go and get married.’

  ‘You mean me and Livia, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Patrick, adding, ‘Or not,’ when he saw Jed had stayed put. ‘But whichever, you need to make a decision. Tell Livia how you feel. And soon.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jed, resignedly.

  Wearily, he stood up and followed Patrick outside to where the GoCar was parked. ‘But I think I’ll walk, if it’s all the same to you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. This thing’s pretty safe . . .’

  ‘It’s not that. I’ve got a big conversation I need to have, so I just need to work out what to say when I get back to the hotel. And how to say it.’

  ‘Sure.’ Patrick slipped on his crash helmet. ‘Me too, funnily enough.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Izzy.’

  ‘Hence the crash helmet?’

  ‘Ha. Maybe that’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Things not working out?’

  ‘Surprised?’ Patrick said, and Jed shuddered at the word. He’d already had enough surprises for one weekend.

  Liam was getting desperate. Not about Jed’s whereabouts – Patrick had just texted him with found him, heading back and a smiley face, so he knew he could relax on that front – but about his prospects for this evening. So far today he’d tried to make conversation with at least half a dozen women, with little success – no thanks to Livia – and had even considered the girl working at the hotel bar, though he suspected the only reason she’d been so friendly was because he’d miscalculated the exchange rate and left her a much larger tip than he’d intended. Flirting with someone round the pool was out of bounds – though only because he couldn’t take his T-shirt off thanks to Izzy’s ‘artistic’ application of sunblock on his back, and it was too hot to sit out there with it on. Eventually, reluctantly, he’d slipped his phone from his pocket and launched Tinder, although then he remembered what had happened the previous evening and killed the app just as quickly as last night’s date had killed his desire.

  Maybe he was doing this all wrong. Trying too hard. Perhaps he should wait and let them come to him. After all, as best man he’d be the centre of attention this evening, apart from Livia and Jed. He had a sharp suit with him, and would be knocking them dead with his speech (although he still hadn’t written a word of it), plus he’d be the one dictating the tunes later. Women liked a man in a suit, they loved a sense of humour, and how many DJs did you see going home on their own? No, tonight was going to be his night. As well as Jed and Livia’s, of course.

  And if the worst came to the worst, that Rachel girl was apparently pretty fit. And desperate – Livia had texted him earlier to tell him Rachel had just been dumped (in a ‘stay away/tread carefully’ way rather than encouraging him to ‘comfort’ her), which meant she was odds-on to be that perfect combination of vulnerable and drunk. Liam had been told he was a good listener – which was just as well, given how much most of the women he’d dated loved to talk. He’d probably be sitting next to her, or at least could sit himself down in the empty seat next to her, so all he’d need to do was keep topping up her glass . . .

  Liam caught himself. What was he thinking? This was his brother’s wedding, and here he was, wondering how best to guarantee he got a shag this evening – even considering that an emotionally traumatised woman might be his best bet – plus he’d already tried to chat up Patrick’s girlfriend. He hadn’t known who she was, but still . . . Maybe the sunburn tattoo on his back just about summed him up. Besides, even if he did get lucky, the moment he took his shirt off (unless he kept the lights off), the game would surely be up.

  What was worse, his brother’s apparent cold feet might actually be his fault. Taking the piss when he’d known what Jed already felt about the situation, then pretty much spelling out to Livia why Jed had never asked her to marry him in the first place . . . Perhaps not the most sensible approach, given the circumstances. Or the best timing. No, he decided, on second thoughts, a night off wouldn’t kill him. He’d do his best to smooth things over between Jed and Livia, then he’d give a textbook speech and DJ the night to perfection. If anything happened – well, that would be a bonus.

  He glanced at his watch, wondering what the strange feeling he was experiencing could be. And then he realised. He was feeling good about himself. And Liam hadn’t felt that way for a long, long time.

  Still with a few hours to kill, Liam decided spending them at the bar probably wasn’t the most sensible approach, so instead he went up to his room, changed into his gym gear and headed to what the hotel’s website described as their ‘fitness centre’.

  Gently, he cracked the door open and peered through the gap. Apart from a treadmill that had seen better days, a couple of exercise bikes and a rack of weights that his gran could probably lift in one hand, there wasn’t that much to keep him occupied. Though when Liam strode into the mercifully air-conditioned room, he saw something else – or rather someone else – he’d rather spend time on.

  ‘Hola!’ he said, flashing the woman his best, recently whitened smile, though ‘Oh la la!’ would probably have been more appropriate. She was gorgeous: around his age, wearing a tightly fitting pair of yoga pants – were there any other type? – and a sports bra that was struggling to contain what the Daily Mail would describe as her ‘ample assets’.

  ‘Hola,’ she said, looking up from some sort of yoga pose on the mat in front of the mirror, demonstrating the kind of flexibility that sent Liam’s mind into a spin, and he swallowed so hard it made a sound.

  He circled the room, swinging his arms vigorously, pretending to engage in some sort of warm-up, all the time making sure the woman couldn’t see him staring at her in the mirror. She looked familiar, though Liam couldn’t place her. Normally when that happened to him it was someone he’d slept with, and not remembering their name would get him into trouble – there were only so many times you could refer to someone as ‘babe’ or ‘darlin’ in a conversation before they realised you were doing it as a cover. But the chances of him running into an ex here in Barcelona were pretty small, surely?

  He watched her covertly for a while, then picked up the heaviest dumbbells and attempted to press them overhead a few times before realising they were heavier than he’d first thought, so he turned the movement into a squat, dumped them noisily back on the rack and cleared his throat.

  ‘Um, habla . . .’ – what was the phrase? He pulled his phone out of his pocket, punched the words into Google Translate and did his best. ‘Inglés?’ he said, rhyming it with ‘singles’, which was perhaps appropriate, though he’d said it in his best Spanish accent, which on reflection Liam realised wasn’t very Spanish at all. Or very anything, for that matter.

  ‘Do you?’ said the woman.

  ‘Ha ha. That’s funny. Sor
ry. I just wanted to ask if you were using the running machine?’

  The woman glanced over at the treadmill, then down at the mat she was sitting on, in a ‘do I look like I’m using it?’ kind of way.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I thought I might. If you weren’t. Planning to.’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Liam said, to her chest, fearing that she might knock herself out if she tried anything more than a slow jog. ‘Will do. Not literally, of course.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Sorry about earlier.’

  ‘Earlier?’

  ‘Darren.’

  ‘Darren?’ Liam hesitated, then remembered where he’d seen the woman before. Round the pool. When her meathead boyfriend had commented on his . . . ‘Oh. Right. No harm done.’

  ‘He can just be a bit of a . . .’

  ‘Dick?’

  The woman laughed. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, like I said, no harm done.’ He waited until she resumed her stretching, then cleared his throat again. ‘What’s that you’re doing?’

  ‘Down dog.’

  ‘Hey!’ Liam held both hands up, taking the opportunity to flex his biceps. ‘I only asked.’

  ‘No – it’s the name of the pose. Though now you mention it . . .’ The woman narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Hang on. Do I know you from somewhere else?’

  Liam had to stop himself from applauding in delight. ‘That’s the oldest chat-up line in the book,’ he said, happy he could trot out his standard response and immediately put her on the back foot.

  ‘It would be. If I was trying to chat you up,’ said the woman, though flirtatiously, and Liam grinned.

  ‘Hey. Just a bit of banter.’

  ‘Banter.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He moved over to one of the bikes and jumped on. ‘But yes, you might.’

  ‘Are you going to enlighten me?’

  ‘Big Brother?’

  ‘The novel?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Orwell?’

  Liam frowned. What did a green duck puppet have to do with anything? ‘No, my name’s Liam. Liam Woodward. I was on Big Brother.’

  The woman peered at him. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’

  Liam stared at her for a moment, wondering whether to point out that he already had, then she shook her head.

  ‘No. I give up.’

  ‘I was on Season Eleven.’

  ‘I didn’t know there’d been a Season Eleven.’

  ‘Well, there was,’ said Liam, a little disgruntled.

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘I remember now. I read about you in the paper. You were the one who tried to have sex with everyone. Including that woman who hosted the after-show thing.’

  ‘She was flirting with me.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is “interviewing”.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So you didn’t shag her?’

  ‘A gentleman never kisses and tells. And don’t believe everything you read in the Daily Mail. Except, maybe, for that.’

  The woman got up from the mat, walked over to the drinking fountain in the corner, bent over (which gave Liam a perfect view of her perfect derrière) and took a huge gulp of water. ‘So, what are you doing here?’ she said, dabbing at the sweat on her forehead with the towel round her neck.

  ‘Same as you. Fancied a workout.’

  ‘In Barcelona!’

  Liam jabbed a thumb in the general direction of the hotel’s reception. ‘My brother’s getting married. You?’

  ‘Well, as you saw, I’m here with Darren.’ The woman paused for a moment. ‘He’s my . . . well, husband, I suppose,’ she added, strolling over and hopping up onto the adjacent bike.

  ‘You “suppose”?’

  ‘We have an arrangement.’

  ‘Right,’ said Liam, liking what he was hearing. ‘And that is?’

  ‘You know. Non-exclusive. So we can see other people,’ she said, adding, ‘If we want,’ as if keen to leave Liam in no doubt of the uncertainty of her status. ‘He’s upstairs. Having a siesta. I was bored. So I came down to work off my . . .’

  ‘Frustrations?’

  ‘I was going to say lunch. But now you mention it . . .’

  ‘He is a dick, isn’t he?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that if you were my girlfriend, and we were in a fancy hotel for the weekend, I certainly wouldn’t waste my afternoon asleep.’

  ‘What would you be doing?’

  ‘Well, you.’

  The woman suddenly leaned over and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and Liam feared he’d gone too far, though he changed his mind when she ran a finger down the tattoo on his left bicep. ‘What’s your room number?’

  Liam swallowed hard again. ‘Thirteen,’ he blurted out, though he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out ‘Why?’ immediately afterwards.

  The woman glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I don’t have long before Darren starts to wonder where I am, but if you still fancied that workout . . . ?’

  Liam glanced over at the treadmill, then back at the woman. Finally, he thought. That – or rather her – was exactly what he fancied.

  Patrick waved Jed off with a promise to meet him at the hotel bar at five, deposited the GoCar back at the garage, then headed to the hotel, preparing to deal with a drama of his own. He’d always hated arguments. Couldn’t understand those couples who told each other everything and saw the resulting rows as a natural part of a relationship, a way to clear the air. If you were in a healthy relationship, the air shouldn’t need clearing. No, total openness and complete honesty were a no-no as far as Patrick was concerned, along with going to the toilet in front of each other – some things needed to remain a secret, otherwise there was no air of mystery. Though, he realised wistfully, maybe that was why he was divorced. For not doing that kind of thing.

  He rode the lift up to his floor, then headed back to his room, surprised to find his hands were trembling as he slid his key card into the lock. He’d pictured this weekend as a relaxing couple of days in one of his favourite cities, a chance to share what he loved about Barcelona with Izzy, punctuated by a pleasant evening where he watched two of his best friends get married, but so far he’d spent more time in shops and bars than galleries and museums, he’d had to use all his powers of negotiation and persuasion to ensure the actual wedding went ahead, and now there was another ‘problem’ to deal with – and this one was something he certainly hadn’t seen coming. But if he wasn’t happy with the way things were going, then it was possible that Izzy wasn’t either. And if that was the case then – as he’d just told Jed – he needed to confront it, and sooner rather than later.

  He opened his door and stepped inside, to be greeted by the sight of his naked girlfriend drying her hair in front of the full-length mirror, and his first thought was whether this particular issue might well keep. She hadn’t heard him come in, and for a moment he stood there, admiring her reflection, until he remembered that doing exactly the same thing – as he’d pretended to be considering the ridiculously expensive Japanese jeans she’d made him try on in Selfridges – was what had got him into this situation in the first place. After another moment, he took a deep breath, then closed the door with an audible bang.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, switching off the dryer and tossing it on the bed.

  ‘I could say the same to you.’

  ‘Did you enjoy your little tour?’

  Something about the way she’d phrased it made his hackles rise. ‘I cut it short. Like you did with your hair, I see.’

  Izzy shrugged, then turned and examined her reflection. ‘There was this cool little salon down one of the side streets. The guy there told me he’d do it for nothing, as long as he could take a photo of the end result.’

  Patrick opened his mouth, intending to remind Izzy that no one did anything for nothing, and wondering exa
ctly what that photo had involved, but realised he might not like where that conversation might lead. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I just fancied a change.’

  Patrick stared at her. ‘Listen, Izzy . . .’ he said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘You’re mad at me.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and when Patrick didn’t answer, she pouted at him from the other side of the bed, still making no move to get dressed – something Patrick was finding a little distracting.

  Izzy padded over to where he was still standing by the door, and pressed her naked body against his. ‘Want me to make it up to you?’ she said, standing up on tiptoe, breathing the words into his ear then nibbling on his earlobe, and Patrick felt a familiar stirring.

  ‘Izzy . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure it’s working.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Izzy rubbed her hand up and down the front of his trousers. ‘It seems to be working just fine to me. And even if it wasn’t, you can get those pills that—’

  ‘Not that.’ Patrick took half a step backwards. ‘Us. This was supposed to be our weekend. To do stuff together.’

  She reached for his belt buckle. ‘We can do stuff together.’

  ‘Apart from that.’ Patrick gently removed her hands from his groin area.

  ‘Don’t be like that, baby. I’m sorry I ran out, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure I do.’

  She broke away, and stared at him incredulously. ‘You want to do this now? A couple of hours before we have to go and watch someone get married?’